


Only Several Miles from the Sun

by AnotherRandomReader



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Big Brother!Mycroft, Drug Addiction, F/M, HUGE Age Difference, Hamish and Sherlock are roommates and bffs, Hamish is John and Mary's son, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Slow Build, conflicted!John, lovely creeper!Moriarty, mourning!Sherlock, troubled!Sherlock, widow!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:03:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherRandomReader/pseuds/AnotherRandomReader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's only going to spend the holidays at his best friend -who's he lying to? only friend-'s house because he can't stand Mycroft. </p><p>He's not expecting to get rid of a burgeoning addiction, find a life-changing hobby, discover deep-hidden truths and he's definitely not expecting to fall in love. With his best friend's father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Maroon 5's 'The Sun'.
> 
> Nothing's mine, probably not even the plot (although, I can't remember reading anything like this anywhere in the Sherlock fandom).

 

‘Dad?’

 

‘ _Hamish? Why are you calling me at-‘_ he could hear shuffling around and the sound of a light switch ‘ _-almost 4 in the morning? Is everything all right? Jesus Christ, please tell me that Sherlock hasn’t blown up the room ag-‘_

 

‘No dad, it’s nothing like that. There’s just something I wanted to ask you, you see-‘

 

‘ _Couldn’t this wait until a decent hour? I’m picking you up in 2 hours, for God’s sake. If this is some sort of tactic to make me agree to something outlandish again, I’m telling you, it won’t work. Hamish, how many times do I have to tell you that-‘_

_‘_ No dad, I’m not asking permission for anything unusual.’ Suddenly, his mad roommate –that had been laying on his bed and muttering to himself for the last 30 minutes about fat relatives- threw a chemistry book across the room. ‘Actually, I am. Sherlock fought with Mycroft. Again. This time it seems pretty serious, so, as to avoid manslaughter, I wanted to ask you if Sherlock can spend the holidays with us.’

 

‘ _Hamish, I really don’t think Mycroft would allow Sherlock to-‘_

Hamish stood up from his bed and walked out of the room –not without tripping over several books and bagged …stuff- into the common hallway. He knew that this was a failed attempt at privacy, given that his roommate _is_ Sherlock Holmes, but one can always hope, right?

 

‘Dad, since Sherlock’s parents died things have been hard between he and Mycroft.’ He whispered into his mobile phone. ‘Much more than usual. I think Mycroft will perfectly understand, and yes, _allow_ Sherlock to spend the holidays with us.’

 

‘ _Well. Right. Sherlock’s you best friend. I guess he could spend the-‘_

_‘_ Thank you so much dad, I swear you won’t regret it. He’ll be grateful -in his own way- maybe I’ll be able to guilt-trip him into keeping the dead animals out of the house. Or at least out of the kitchen-‘

 

‘ _Wait Hamish. Dead anim-‘_

_‘_ Thanks dad. See you tomorrow! Oh, it’s already tomorrow. See you later, then!’ And with that, he hung up the phone before his dad could put in another word –or change his mind-.

 

He stood in front of the closed door and prepared himself before entering his room.

 

Since Sherlock’s parents passed away, Sherlock had been …quiet. He had stopped completely his constant (but characteristic) snapping, insulting and nagging. And while his teachers and peers viewed this sudden change as positive, Hamish knew that this didn’t indicate something good. It was distressing, and Hamish couldn’t help but be worried for his friend.

 

He didn’t even know how to act around him: Sherlock evidently didn’t want him his sympathy or comfort (he tried, and it lead to one of the most awkward moments of his life. He’s never, EVER, hugging Sherlock again.), and trying to act normal hadn’t helped the situation (it was like talking to a wall –that only spoke to itself-). In fact, Sherlock had only spoken directly to him once since the accident, and that was half an hour ago when he asked him if he could spend the holidays with him.

 

Putting on his ‘everything’s fine’ face he walked back into his room. Sherlock had made the most of the tree minutes Hamish had been outside and had lit a cigarette. Sighing, Hamish walked over to Sherlock, took the cigarette from his fingers and threw it out the window. Sherlock didn’t even protest.

 

‘Dad agreed. It seems you’ll be spending the holidays with us. Are you sure Mycroft’ll be fine with it?’ It was necessary to ask, even if Mycroft's refusal would only impulse Sherlock further. He feared that if he didn't ask Mycroft'd find out (which he probably _would_ , given his omniscient/mysterious ways) and that he'd do something terrible to him (he was pretty sure he could be a farmer in India by tomorrow afternoon if Mycroft felt like it). To this day he still couldn't understand how Sherlock managed to not be afraid of Mycroft, the guy was seriously creepy and had -apparently- unlimited ressources.

 

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and turned himself so as to face the wall. Hamish took that as a yes.

 

He packed the last of his clothes, put Sherlock's things -that were scattered all over the floor- in a pile on the desk, turned the lights off and laid on his unmade bed. He committed himself to sleep the two hours he had left before his father would come to pick ~~him~~ them up.

 

He was about to doze off before he heard a whispered ‘Thank you’ from the other side of the room.


	2. Week One (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Hamish settle in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock continues to be uncommunicative, Hamish continues to be worried and John promises to help.

**John Watson’s POV**

_Well, that was the most awkward cab ride in the history of cab rides._

Having a teenage son is hard enough. Having a teenage son that has a best friend that refuses to talk and only growls as a response when spoken to is, well, awkward. He knows how to deal when Sherlock insults his supposedly inferior intelligence, but this silence? He can’t cope with this. He has known this kid for four years now, and even if his normally rude (arrogant, blunt, impertinent and insolent) behaviour had initially put him off, he had come to care for him. Sherlock is certainly an acquired taste –to say the least-, but what he has never understood is how one can resist being intrigued by Sherlock. Hate him or love him, he’s certainly an interesting character; and even if he has a complete disregard for social cues, his intelligence is surely something to praise.

                                                                                                                                                          

Back to awkward cab rides. After picking up Hamish and Sherlock, he had tried to make small talk –as any normal person would, mind him-.  And while the few first minutes were pleasant, with Hamish talking about the latest gossip in the rugby team (apparently, Martin –Hamish’s other best friend besides Sherlock- had shagged Tristan’s –Hamish’s rugby co-captain- girlfriend), the ones that followed were uncomfortable, to say the least. Indeed it all went to hell as soon as John decided that the correct thing to do would be to include Sherlock in the conversation. He expected a crude remark about any of the ones involved (such as ‘ _PLEASE_ , anyone with two eyes can see that Tristan’s a raging homosexual and that this was a desperate attempt on his girlfriend’s side to catch his attention’), and he could’ve dealt with that –in fact, he would probably have appreciated that-, but the icy glare and guttural growl he received instead silenced him. And Hamish too. For the rest of the car ride. Which caused a tense atmosphere.

 

Thankfully, given that Harrow wasn’t that far from central London, they didn’t have to endure it for that long. When they arrived 221 Baker Street, John paid the cabbie, took Hamish’s backpack, Sherlock’s violin case and left the boys to carry the rest of their luggage. Wanting to save Mrs, Hudson from Sherlock’s anticlimactic behaviour, he rushed to the door, opened it, left the boys’ things on the doorstep and hurried to 221A.

 

Apparently, Mrs Hudson had heard him enter, as she was already putting some biscuits in a platter and turning on the kettle. He stood in her doorway as she started to ramble.

 

‘Are the boys already here? I’ve missed Hamish so much, and goodness, I haven’t seen Sherlock in ages. How must they have gr-‘ he heard them entering the house.

 

‘Mrs, Hudson, Sherlock’s acting strange. Please, consider this before try-‘

 

‘John, when isn’t Sherlock acting weird? Please, just let me pass, I must see them. You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve missed them, I can’t wait to spend the summer with them, the house will be once again filled with life, like the old times, remember? When dear Mary was still wi-‘

 

John took her softly by the shoulders and started whispering frantically ‘Mrs Hudson, you don’t understand, I don’t want you to get hurt. Sherlock’s being difficult, I suspect it has to do with his parents’ death, he may not act as he usually does and I don’t want to overwhelm him.’

 

Mrs Hudson apparently understood what he meant, as her eyes filled with sadness and unshed tears ‘That poor boy, he must be going through such a difficult time, silly me, I had entirely forgotten about it. But don’t worry, I won’t bring it up. I swear’

 

With that being said, they went to help the boys with their luggage. As soon as Mrs. Hudson saw them, apparently overpowered by her happiness started to cry. She hugged Hamish as if she hadn’t seen him in years and started gushing about how ‘he was becoming such a handsome young man, surely better looking than his old man’, this, while being heart-warming made John frown. When she finally released a very out-of-breath Hamish, she hugged Sherlock –or well, more like Sherlock’s torso, given that he had a few heads on her already- and, neglecting everything John had asked, gave him several condolences. John facepalmed internally.

 

Seeing that Sherlock was about to have some sort of attack, he interrupted the scene with a cough.

 

‘Well, Mrs. Hudson, the boys stayed up until dawn packing, we should let them settle and rest for a bit, don’t you think?’ He picked up the backpack and the violin case and went up the stairs.

OoOoOoO

 

**Hamish’s POV**

 

Given that nobody wanted to stay in 221C  -Hamish considered that if hell existed, it’d be like 221C in summer-, they decided that he and Sherlock would share Hamish’s bedroom. Which wouldn’t be that much different from daily life, really.

 

While he was comfortable with this arrangement, he definitely wasn’t comfortable with making it suitable for more than one. Not only had he slept less than two hours in the last day, but now he had to completely rearrange the room’s setting. First, he had to move his desk against the opposite wall to make space for the futon (without Sherlock’s help, of course. Why would the Great Sherlock Holmes lower himself to such a mundane activity?) and now he had to bring up the futon itself all the way down from 221C.

 

He could play the part of understanding friend only so much, a guy had his limits, and his were extenuating physical labour. Even though he is fit enough from rugby, and that he always could ask his dad for help (who is, embarrassingly in better physical shape) he considered that Sherlock, being the one that will be actually using the makeshift bed, should help.

 

Apparently, Sherlock had other ideas in mind. He was lying in Hamish’s bed as if it were his, staring at the ceiling with both hands under his chin as if he were praying.

 

Hamish called Sherlock’s name, trying (and failing) to get his attention. He sighed and shook his friend’s shoulder.

 

‘Sherlock, I need you to help me carry the futon from 221C.’ Sherlock pointedly glared at his hand and continued to ignore him.

 

Hamish had had quite enough. Although he understood perfectly that his friend was grieving in his own way, he didn’t want to live walking on eggshells for the next two months and a half. He had given him enough space, but now, they were at his house. He can’t allow this tense atmosphere to rule for the next two months and a half.

 

‘Listen Sherlock, I know that you’re grieving. But I can’t live like this. It’s been more than a month since the … accident; I think it’s time we talked about it. Or you know what, maybe don’t talk about it, just talk. I’m your friend, you know? And friends talk about these things, or at least they should. I know you’re hurting, but you can’t expect to live with me and to shut me out from your life at the sa-‘

 

Sherlock removed Hamish’s hand from his shoulder and stood up from the bed gracefully but slowly.

 

‘Shut up.’ He sounded defeated, and tired. ‘Please, just shut up. I’ll help you bring whatever you want, just _please_ , don’t try to make me “open up” or whatever.’

 

Hamish just nodded and left the room, Sherlock followed him. He hoped his distress didn’t show too obviously on his actions because he was pretty sure he was having an internal panic attack. _Bollocks. God, this shit is serious._ He had never heard Sherlock say ‘please’, not to him. THE Sherlock does not beg, he demands what he wants (in a variety of tones) or in most cases, just takes it.

 

Before he noticed, he found himself in 221C carrying the old futon up the stairs. He was practically on autopilot, still replaying Sherlock’s words in his mind and wondering if maybe, contacting Mycroft _was_ the sensible thing to do. Because this shell of a person wasn’t his friend. On the other side, bringing Mycroft into the situation would more than likely just cause conflict, but at least Sherlock _spoke_ to Mycroft, even if it was to yell at him –in foreign languages, at that-. And to threaten him. Maybe it’d be better if he didn’t call Mycroft after all.

 

After many bumps –these hallways were just too narrow- they made it to Hamish’s room. Hamish took some sheets, a pillow and gave them to Sherlock. He left him to make his bed and went to talk to his father.

 

 

OoOoOoO

 

 

**John’s POV**

 

John was sitting on his bed reading mails on his laptop when he heard a knock on the door and then the door opening. He took off his reading glasses –god, he _is_ getting old- and watching his son sit in bed next to him, he closed his laptop and put it on the bedside table.

 

‘H, I thought you were going to catch some rest.’ Now that he looked at his son up close he realised he really did look exhausted. He had dark rings around his eyes and he was somewhat pale. He guessed it was the accumulation of finals, packing and living with Sherlock.

 

‘I was, well I am, I just need to speak to you for a bit.’ He yawned. ‘Dad, well, things have been worse than what I might’ve said over the phone. Sherlock doesn’t talk. At all. Well, for the exception of Mycroft, but even then it’s mostly to insult him.’ He recalled the few conversations he had overheard since Sherlock’s parents had died. ‘And mostly is in languages I didn’t even know Sherlock could talk in. And his habits have, ehm, deteriorated. Sherlock’s always been, y’know, Sherlock. Eats and sleeps as little as possible. But since, he received _the_ phone call, I haven’t seen him sleep. Or eat, and I spend a lot of time with him.’

 

Thinking retrospectively, John _had_ , in fact, noticed Sherlock thinner and gaunter. But it was to be expected; his parents did die almost a month ago.

 

‘I thought it was his way of coping. But I’m starting to think he’s losing himself, or like, drowning in himself. Even if he says he doesn’t need “imbeciles slowing him down”, we both know he _needs_ the appreciation. But he refuses to talk to me. Maybe he’s embarrassed or something. I don’t know. Could you speak to him? I mean, you did follow psychiatry at some point, right?’

 

‘Hamish, first of all, I'm not a psychiatrist, I'm a surgeon. And, secondly, I really don't think-' He was about to refuse the responsability, he didn't even have this kind of talks with his _own_ son, but the dissappointed look Hamish shot him stopped him dead in his tracks 'look, I can try to speak to him. But if he doesn’t speak to you I wouldn’t hold too much hope on him confiding in me.’ He could at least promise to try.

 

Hamish smiled the same boyish smile he had whenever John promised to read him a bedtime story. He made a mental note to spend more time with him, years do fly by, don't they? He was instantly filled with a rush of affection and nostalgia and he hugged him.

 

When they separated, Hamish cleared his throat, said ‘Thanks dad. For everything, I’ll be going to sleep now.’ and left.

 

John checked his watch, and noticing it was, in fact, just 10 am on a Saturday morning he decided he’d be doing the same. Surely talking with Sherlock could wait another couple of hours.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments would be deeply appreciated :) (even if they indicate how much you hated this; after all, I _love_ conflict.
> 
> Btw, the next chapter has Sherlock's view on the whole matter.


	3. Week One (Part 2)

**Sherlock’s POV**

Sherlock didn’t want to be here. Surely this was better than sharing a house with that megalomaniac, borderline obese _thing_ he had for a brother, but that didn’t mean he’d actually enjoy spending time with the Watsons. He hadn’t even been here for three hours and he could already feel his brain rotting.

 

It’s not that he hated either Hamish, John or Mrs Hudson. In fact, as far as regular human beings went, these three were pretty decent. He’s sure that these were the only people left on earth that knew him on a personal basis and didn’t have vivid fantasies about his death. But even that didn’t help the fact that they were extremely dull and annoying. With what their obtuse hero complex trying to ‘save’ him ( _of course_ he had overheard their “private” conversation).  The fact that they even attempt to have “private” conversations does nothing else than prove his point.

 

They thought he was mourning the death of his parents. How could he tell them that he never mourned them? For him they had never been more than two strangers that provided him with money, gifts and cards on the odd birthday or Christmas. The cause of his behavioural anomaly was nothing more than a result of frustration. While his parents’ death didn’t particularly trouble him, the mystery that surrounded it did.

 

The facts were these: Mycroft called him on a Thursday while he was skipping literature class (it was a wonder how people considered it a class) to tell him that they had died in a car crash a week ago in Switzerland. The fact that it took the omnipotent Mycroft a whole week to tell him planted a seed of suspicion in him. This made him research local newspapers. According to them, Siger Holmes, aged 59, lost control of his brand new Jaguar thanks to a deathly combination of alcohol and bad weather. While that is credible enough, Sherlock knew for a fact that his father wasn't driving that car. It's just not in their nature to drive themselves to places.

 

And in fact, when looking at the photographs from the accident, the setting was just _wrong_. The bodies weren't where they should be, their wounds did not make any sense in relation to the accident and even their clothes were out of place (Mother would have never used _boots_ ). He lacked more data though, and he found himself stuck, he couldn't go beyond that:

 a) his parents hadn’t died in a car crash (evidently, they had died somewhere else),

b) they presented classical signs of torture (tortured by whom?) and

c) Mycroft was hiding something (which just assured him that they hadn’t died when he said they did), and Sherlock would never get it out of him.

 

He couldn’t help but treat his parents’ death as if it were nothing else than a puzzle. And very interesting one at that.

 

Evidently, he couldn’t just say this to the Watsons. They would be probably frightened of him which would lead to them sending him as far away as possible, thus with Mycroft. Who would do everything in his power from him solving said puzzle. _And they thought he didn’t understand social cues. Ha!_

 

The Watsons are good-intentioned people, no doubt. That doesn’t erase the fact they’re just as insipid and impressionable as they come.

 

He needed a distraction. He needed to take a step back to see things from a different perspective.

 

The dilemma is that the Watson household didn’t offer any mental stimulation. He couldn’t even entertain himself for a few short seconds digging for their dirty little secrets. Because they didn’t _have_ any. They were so damned open about their lives and irremediably _nice_. Eurgh, Sherlock knew their life story from one look, the deductions done to acquire whatever the Watsons hadn’t told him explicitly (although they would’ve probably told him if he’d asked) were so easy they didn’t even deserve to be classified as such.

 

When he first saw Hamish he instantly knew he came from a single-parented and rich household. The fact that the designer trousers he wore were fairly new but with trails of mud on the hems clearly indicated that

1) Hamish didn’t take much care of his clothing, which proved that he came from a family with money, which eliminated the probability of being in Harrow on scholarship;

2) he doesn’t have a close mother figure, as sexist as he may sound, women do tend to worry about introducing their offspring to social life, and

3) the traces of mud announced that he, shortly before coming to the first day of school, a day really important to most parents, in the case of Harrow, considered even as a social event, had played some sort of contact sport in a muddy field; this led to the fact

4) Hamish lived with his father, a permissive man that had no idea of the social conventions of high society and that demonstrated much more love for his son than what was usual for this social circle: being a single parent, the logical solution would’ve been to send him further from London, so as to have an excuse to not have to take care of him on weekends.

 

When he first met John, two weekends after being located in the same room as Hamish, he got the chance to confirm what he had already deduced.

 

John’s stance clearly indicated military, the lack of any characteristic tan lines informed him that he had been out of service for several years, probably decided to change his career path when Hamish was born; the fact that he seemed worried by Sherlock’s weight and that he checked his lower eyelid for anaemia indicated he was a medical man and finally, his manner of speech indicated that he had much plebeian origins. All of which led to an obvious conclusion: John had met Hamish’s mother -who came from a wealthy family- while in the military, had had Hamish when he was around thirty and had lost his wife while Hamish was relatively young. When his wife died, he must’ve received a large sum of money not only from inheritance but also likely from some assurance company.

 

All of this did nothing else than remind him again that this house brought no new information about their owners. Owners, who had been sleeping for the last two hours and who would continue in the same state for a few more. At least Hamish certainly would, given that he was used to eight or even nine hours of sleep per day and that in the last week he hadn’t gotten more than a couple of hours at best.

 

 He practically had the house for himself then, and given that nothing was proving to be interesting he decided to indulge. He walked as stealthily as his body could allow him into the room he’d be sharing with Hamish, opened his suitcase quietly and took out the leather-covered, book-sized box. He looked in Hamish’s direction, confirmed that he was still deeply asleep and walked out of the room.

 

Normally he only allowed himself this release either at night when he was sure Hamish would be definitely asleep or while Hamish was on classes. He was sure that Hamish wouldn’t realise he was under the effect, but normally he wouldn’t risk getting caught while in the process of getting high.

 

Even if the risk was low –the other two occupants of the flat were currently unconscious and Mrs. Hudson’s not likely to barge in 221B-, a sick sense of thrill filled him. He locked himself in the bathroom, put the box on the sink and opened it. He diluted less than half a gram of coke –he didn’t want to risk an OD where someone could actually find him- in 20 cc of water in a glass tube and boiled it a little with his lighter. He knew that this wasn’t necessary, but to him, even if he knew it was irrational, made the low much bearable.

 

He waited a couple of minutes until it was cool enough, absorbed it into his syringe and injected himself in his forearm. The rush was almost instantaneous. That’s why he preferred shooting up so much to the alternative, snorting’s not only messy and anti-hygienic but it also subdues the effect.

 

He cleaned his kit, put it back on the box, got out of the bathroom, went into Hamish’s room and put the box back in his place.

 

He laid on the sofa in the living room. He was finally in power. In control of his own mind. Concentration’s so much easier, effortless. The whole world, scratch that, universe comes into focus just for him and everything’s just that much clearer. Clear enough to actually _see._ And god, can he see.

_Mycroft hadn’t waited to tell him because he couldn’t bring himself to hurt him. No, Mycroft, the hateful bastard knew him much better than that. Why bother to tell him is the better question. Better yet, why bother to hide the truth. That novelistic accident reeked of Mycroft all over. And well, the fact that he had practically covered their murder implied that he had some level of involvement in it. He had no real motive, though. So, why would Mycroft hide someone else’s crime? Mycroft only partakes in whatever is of convenience to him, and Sherlock cannot see any interest in their death for him. Mycroft can own as much money as he likes at any given moment, and everything can virtually be his at will: no monetary interest then. Sentimental, then? Ha, Mycroft is too cold even to hate. So, why then-_

A hand shaking his shoulder stops his thought process. Annoyed, he settles his sight onto the disturbing presence. It’s John, and apparently, he’s speaking. Huh, he needs to sharpen his awareness while in deep thinking.

 

‘-listening to me? I’ve been trying to catch your attention for like, ten minutes. You’re just staring into space. _God_. Are you fine? Listen, if you do not give any sign of understanding I’m taking you to the hosp-‘

 

Ten minutes? _Time is such a feeble thing_. He scoffs and blinks.

 

He sees it before it happens, sitting down and making some weak excuse. John believing it, because it’s practically written in the Watsons’ genes to believe the best of everyone. And then offering him some sort of nutritionally balanced aliment, because it is also engraved in them to _help_. And it’s just what happens.

 

He sits and mutters ‘sorry, I must’ve fallen in some sort of daydream’. Well, while a response like that would normally raise suspicion, in his believed state of grief out of character behaviour is to be expected.

 

As if on cue, John’s eyes soften with something akin to sadness, and if Sherlock were a tad more human, he’d feel guilty about this. As it is, he just feels irritation. ‘Well, er, it’s noon. You should eat something. We could order takeaway, whatever you want. Just choose before Hamish wakes up, or we’ll end up eating-‘

 

‘Pizza.’ They say in unison. John shoots him a hopeful smile, and Sherlock tries to smile back. Try being the key word. It mostly ends up in a grimace that has John sighing.

 

‘Whatever’s fine, I don’t think I’ll end up eating much of it anyway.’ And then is when the unexpected happens. John should’ve just given up and called Chinese takeaway (if pizza’s Hamish guilty pleasure, then dim sum is John’s), instead John takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and looks directly into his eyes. Sherlock freezes. After a couple of seconds, John puts two fingers on the left side of Sherlock’s throat, and if Sherlock were a little more used to gentle human contact, maybe he could’ve schooled his physical conditions into a semblance of normalcy. As it is, John drops his hands and gives him an enquiring look.

 

‘You have all the textbook signs of substance abuse.’ Sherlock can literally feel his heart stop. How could he be so stupid? No matter how nice or innocent he may be, John’s still a doctor. A _doctor_. He can already imagine Mycroft’s fat, smug face when he finds out Sherlock got caught by a Watson.

 

‘If I didn’t know better I’d say you were on something.’ He hums and Sherlock can breathe again. ‘You must be catching the flu, you need to start taking better care of yourself.’ He concludes while walking to the kitchen. Sherlock makes a disinterested sound of agreement.

 

That was a close call. And while it should teach him to be more careful, it thrills him. John introduces a new level of difficulty to his game. And he’s just won the first match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo, Sherlock _is_ a bit of a sociopath… let's just say it's his way of dealing with things. He'll get better, though, at feelings and stuff.


End file.
